A Study in the Dangers and Disadvantages of Sentiment
by DoctorWhoLocked
Summary: Sherlock asks Irene for help, and soon their escapade turns into something much more dangerous. Basically a lot of Sherlock/Irene running around trying to hunt down Moriarty's web. Post-Reichenbach. Rated M for language and smut.
1. Sherlocked

**Author's Notes:  
**First off, I'd like to make it known that this is my first published work of fanfic, so don't set your expectations too high ;). I'd really appreciate reviews, positive or negative.

Irene and Sherlock's relationship as portrayed in this fanfic is strictly speculated, and based on nothing canon. Their relationship is extremely complex and not much has really been revealed by the show's creators concerning Irene Adler, so this is just my interpretation of their "relationship", whatever it may be. Please don't hate me for my speculation. However I'll try to stay as in-character as I can.

A few of the chapter titles may be song titles, describing the following chapter. It's not really a fan mix per se, but they're just songs to go along with the chapters.

**WARNINGS:** I also want to just state upfront that there will definitely be **SEX, COURSE LANGUAGE, POSSIBLE NON-CON...basically it's M for a reason. The sex will be in later chapters, but I probably won't include a warning, as to not ruin the dynamic of the chapter. **

**Disclaimer: **I do not own Sherlock, because if I did I wouldn't make the fandom wait so long for series 3 ;) Also, I'd be sipping tea with Benedict Cumberbatch and Martin Freeman at 221 B Baker St.

Enjoy, and let me know what you think!

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Chapter 1: Sherlocked

A woman stared calmly out of her hotel window. The Woman. She had barely survived a beheading, yet she stood as grounded, firm, and steady as the ocean she now looked out upon. It had been mere hours. The waves rolled in and out, and she gazed out into the hopeless sea until the soft churning of the waves became one motion, like a hawk swooping down for the kill; constant, continuous, precisely accurate. For a fleeting moment, she stood there, surrounded by the quiet stillness, her thoughts abandoning her, with only the constant crashing of waves on the deserted shore for company. For one moment, she allowed herself to be lost in the sea.

She shifted her eyes to the cool, white, Egyptian cotton sheets on the king sized bed. The most beautiful - and fascinating bed the woman had ever seen. She had no space in her mind to occupy with such trivial matters as a mere bed, but in the stillness, even the waves became more distant, drowned out by her newfound fascination with the magnificent thing. A deep shade of chocolate brown, like silk. Carved flowers and leaves were etched into it, and the roll of the end and the great rise of the headboard directed her thoughts again to the waves crashing below her hotel window. The long, soft, matching white curtains hanging from the notched bedposts fluttered gently, occasionally catching the breeze.

Suddenly, her mind emerged amidst the dreamlike quality of her soft, frayed, and out of focus reality. The blur that had been her head but a minute ago, began to awake, her razor-sharp mind racing as it stirred in her head and she regained her consciousness.

_How long had he been standing there? How long had she?_

"Where are we?" She demanded, a little to abruptly, and quickly, almost like the elastic of a rubber band snapping under the pressure of long, drawn out thoughts, pulling at her brain. Her intense gaze shifted to the door of the penthouse bedroom, at the tall, lean man standing in the door frame, dressed as always in a suit, complete with a tight-fitting shirt a rich shade of purple. The unmistakable profile of one Sherlock Holmes, the world's only consulting detective.

"Delfino Blu Boutique Hotel." He calmly stated, making her demanding question seem all the more desperate. She searched his cool exterior for a hint of further information, but as she opened her mouth to ask (in a much more calm and steady manner) he simply added, "The coast of Kerkrya. In the Ionian Sea."

A blank stare.

"Greece." Adding this "minor" important detail as an afterthought.

"Of course". The woman responded, keeping her calm temperament. That was one of her best qualities: not getting frazzled, slowing down her thoughts, in order to analyze each and every motion, in synchronicity. A choreographed dance, she so beautifully mastered. Her stellar performance.

"So. How long are we to stay here? You shouldn't keep John waiting." She stated simply, before adding, "He so deeply cares for you." With just a hint of suggestiveness.

"I will return to Baker St. immediately. You will stay here until I deem it safe."

"Have you finally lost your head? Safe? I'm supposed to be dead, Mr. Holmes."

"And you haven't died before? "

Irene Adler hesitated before responding, "It's a bit different this time." Her voice remained even and level as always while she recalled what she had believed to be her final breaths.

_I cried. I almost lost my head. I cried. Which was worse? What was the difference anyway?_

"We'll now's not the best time to be keeping secrets. I didn't risk my own life so that you could go and get yourself killed the minute I left you."

"Well aren't you considerate?", the corner of Irene's mouth crooking into a smirk, gone as quickly as it had come. "Let's have dinner."

"It's 1:00 AM."

"Oh." Irene hasn't yet noticed it was so early in the morning, amidst the distraction of her near-death experiences the previous day. "I'm not hungry."

"Why have dinner if you're not hungry? Unless there are other things on your mind."

Irene smiled. The smile that seemed to tear Sherlock apart. It wore away at his heart, melted him. That perfect, warm, yet razor-sharp smile that tugged at him. It was so rarely seem. But he would never let it show of course.

"So", Irene began to pace across the room, slowly, towards Sherlock, "we both have questions."

"I never ask questions."

"Oh right, I forgot you're the great Sherlock Holmes, the-"

"-clever detective in the funny hat, yes, I know. You've said it before." Sherlock said shortly, with a hint of annoyance in his voice.

"Actually 'sociopathic jackass' was the phrase I was going for. I never repeat myself, Mr. Holmes. Makes for dull conversation. It must've been a long trip from London, you're tired and-"

"-Stop it. Don't make small talk. I hate small talk."

A sudden wave of rage flashed across Irene's eyes. There were few things she hated more than being interrupted. Sherlock knew that. So the game had begun, had it? Of course it was only a matter of minutes in conversation together before the clever detective and the dominatrix went to battle, wringing out each others' minds.

She started, again. "Tired and confused, judging on the fact that you booked a penthouse suite with only one bed. You had enough money to invest in two beds, you're a Holmes for God's sake." Irene's voice sounded particularly sharp. She may be in debt to the Holmes' boy, but she couldn't resist taking a little jab at him. "It might also have had to do with the flight from London to Pakistan, then to Greece." She added in a much softer tone. "I haven't formally thanked you."

Sherlock gave her a long, meaningful look, as to acknowledge her thanks.

"You have my sincerest gratitude." Irene tried to sound as sincere as possible. She really meant it. She did feel heartfelt gratitude towards this strange and wonderful man, and it was a rare occasion that she would ever let such an emotion show. But she wanted him to know. He deserved to know, just this once. Did he pick up on the sincerity in her voice? The man may have been a genius but he was shit at being able to understand the emotions emanating from other people.

"What do you need?" She was more straight forward this time. Her voice was all strictly business. "Or better yet, want?"

Sherlock gave her a short glance, not quite sure what she was getting at, but waiting for her to continue.

"As you well know, Mr. Holmes, I hate being in debt. To anyone, and especially you. I'm never late in repaying what is due." She slowly, seductively walked to the edge of the extravagant bed, running her hand on a patch of moonlight, cast from the open window, as she inched closer to him. She sat down abruptly, and crossed her legs, folding her hands into her lap. All her attention was on him now, and her soft, yet intense stare began to unnerve even Sherlock.

He shivered slightly, under her gaze.

"I don't have any information to give. You saw to that, and I don't have any money on me." Her eyes quickly skirted over the bed, before she laid down on it, feeling the satin caress her cheek, her hair flowing out from beneath her. She captured the moonlight. He face a soft, pale glow. "Oh, how I hate to be utterly useless." Her blue robe began to slip past her shoulder. Her glowing neck and shoulders were fully exposed, as her skin peeked out of the thin silk robe, still inching down her body with every rise and fall of her chest. Her beauty matched that of the stars themselves.

_She has even the moon wrapped around her finger, under her control,_ Sherlock thought silently. He stood there awkwardly, slightly uncomfortable, not sure where to look, but certain all the same.

Irene didn't dominate just people, or governments, she controlled everything. Seeing her lying there, a position one might associate with vulnerability, she emitted nothing short of raw, pure power. In that moment, it seemed she could conjure Earth to stop turning underneath there feet. The planets would collide if she blinked. Spinning the sun out of control, and into a black hole.

Sherlock observed the way her eyelashes fluttered delicately as her bright eyes opened, springing her to life. She pulled back the corner of the perfectly made bed, in a highly suggestive manner, lightly resting her hand upon the surface.

"Are you suggesting you repay me with sex?" Sherlock spoke slowly, carefully. But he wasn't alarmed, no, sex didn't alarm Sherlock Holmes. His face twisted in confusion, as though Irene's obvious advances had just occurred to him.

"If that's what you want."

For once in his life, Sherlock was at a loss for words. She was joking, wasn't she? No, no she wasn't, she was a dominatrix. Sex didn't alarm her. Sherlock may not have been ordinary, but he was a man, all the same. But he vowed not to succumb to her so easily. He would only be playing directly into her hand.

"No." He replied simply. Giving the offer no more thought.

Irene continued to stare at him, her electric eyes piercing through him.

"That's not what I want."

"Too bad." And with that, Irene rolled over, allowing herself a peaceful night's sleep, thoughts of the man still staring at her, drifting though her head.

Sherlock walked over to the open window, and stood a moment watching the waves lap up the sand before retreating back into the sea, only to inch up onto the beach again, and take more with it. All under the pull of the moon.

The tidal wave…the ultimate game of cat and mouse. He promptly shut the window, and glanced over at the now sleeping Irene. How can one get such sleep after nearly being executed only hours ago, and then offering sex to the only person who knows of her existence?

_He was special to her, wasn't he? To the rest of the world, Irene Adler was dead. That had to count for something didn't it?_


	2. Hometown Glory, or Cemeteries of London

**Disclaimer: I do not own Sherlock. **

**Songs used in this chapter: **Hometown Glory - Adele

Cemeteries of London - Coldplay

**WARNING! SPOILER ALERTS AHEAD! Well kinda... This is post-Reichenbach!**

**Enjoy! And don't forget to review ;3**

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Chapter 2: Hometown Glory, or Cemeteries of London 

She stepped out of the sleek black box, politely tipping the cabbie before stepping out onto the hard concrete. She watched the cab drive off down the long stretch of road, surrounded by full, leafy green trees, swaying softly in the wind., before walking down a narrow path, listening to the sharp sound of her high heels click-clack on the pavement. She suddenly stopped dead. An overwhelming feeling came over her, and she ignored all formalities that the cold, dead, concrete offered. She took off across the grass, in between running and walking, going nowhere in particular, but knowing where she was going all the same. This…feeling led her to to the exact spot. She knew she was right, she had never been so sure in her life. Her convictions were proved true as she looked down at the name on the black slab, stripped of all but two words; a name.

"Sherlock Holmes", it read. That was it. No formalities. Just "Sherlock Holmes." None of this "Friend, husband, son" shit that people liked to tack on. Who was Sherlock Holmes? Who was he to anyone? How could you possibly sum up a relationship with Sherlock in just a simple word, so commonly used?

Her eyelids fluttered, and she finally succumbed, closing her eyes, taking in his aura, his presence. She could feel him. She knew everything there was to know about the man- his family, friends- well, friend, and his work. That was all there was in his file. Just words. No mention of the smiley face spray painted on his wall, punctured by bullet holes, or the sound of a lone violin resounding through Baker St at 3 AM. Not even the nicotine patches, or his trademark black coat. Not the way he folded his hands while thinking deeply, as though in a solemn prayer, nor his "mind palace".

She almost wanted to smile at that. There were words, yes, to describe who Sherlock was, but none you'd typically find on a tombstone.

Sherlock Holmes: friend to a lonely army doctor returning to London from Afghanistan, who would never believe, for one moment, that Sherlock told him a lie.

Sherlock Holmes: aid to a detective inspector when the police weren't clever enough to solve a puzzle on their own

Sherlock Holmes: disturber of the peace to a landlady on Baker St.

Sherlock Holmes: adversary of the Iceman A.K.A The British Government + its umbrella, the forensics analysis who lowered the IQ of the whole street and his secret lover, unbeknownst to his wife. Oh year, and the mad psychopath who believed he WAS Sherlock Holmes. Only, Sherlock was on the side of the angels.

But Irene didn't believe for a second that he was one of them.

_No Sherlock wasn't anything. He was just a human. The most human human anyone could have known._

Irene stood there, among the trees, the dirt, the flowers, the dying grass, and the weeping angels. Sherlock would have hated this. She smiled slightly at the thought of Sherlock gazing down at her, standing at the foot of his grave.

_It was so…conventional…ordinary._

_Flowers? He would have rather had his violin or maybe his skull lying at his grave. Anything but flowers._

Irene decided it must of been Mrs. Hudson's doing. No one who knew Sherlock would leave flowers, or teddy bears, or bits of scripture, or anything else so sentimental at this man's grave. Not even little Molly.

But her; why was Irene left here at his grave? It was daft. Absolutely mental, to be standing among a peaceful (if you could call it that) field of bodies, midday. It gave even Irene the shivers. If she wasn't careful out here in the open, she'd soon be one of them. But she wasn't going to take it back. She wasn't here to say beautiful, heartfelt words in order to console herself over such a loss. She knew exactly why she was here. She was a busy woman, and she didn't have time to wander around London, wallowing in anguish. She always knew exactly where she was going, always had a purpose. And now, she was here to pay tribute to Sherlock. That's all he would ever be to her; just…Sherlock.

With a still heavily masked face, wiped of any emotion whatsoever, she walked away from his grave. What could she have said anyway? She barely knew him, yet knew him so well. It was pointless to sum up her thoughts about him, anyway. What she was more curious about, anyhow, was what was left of the lives of Sherlock's dearly beloved.

In her hidden part of her heart, of all our hearts, in the place where we tuck information or feelings we'd rather seal away, banish from our beings, she felt a twinge of hope. Strange, strange hope. Her eyes widened, pulse quickened as the feeling washed over every part of her.

_Suicide? No, it can't be. He wasn't like the rest of them. He wasn't ordinary. He couldn't jump. How cliche. Why did John believe it? Because he saw it. That's why._

Irene Adler had made it a strong point in her work to not believe anything that anyone told her.

_Not even _seeing_ is believing. That gas used in H.O.U.N.D. They all saw that hound, yet it wasn't so._

She could fake it, so why couldn't he? Oh yeah…because he had helped her. Irene's heart sank. Maybe she shouldn't have come here after all. It was a stupid idea, she had known from the beginning, but it was the least she owed. She never got the chance to repay him. She shut her mind, to any further thoughts, knowing this train of thought had the potential to open doors which couldn't be so easily closed.

_No. Snap out of it Irene. He's dead._

_He jumped._

Irene left it at that. She quickly stuffed that unnerving hope back into the abyss of her damaged heart, and left it there, out of sight, out of mind. Some things are easier not thinking about.


	3. Dead Man Walking

Hey guys, I just wanted to start out by saying that I was extremely flattered by my lovely reviewers! So thank you so much to **Kilimiria** and all you anons. It was really encouraging, considering that I've never written a fanfic before. I'm going to try to update at least once weekly, but I can't promise anything. I'm literally BURSTING with ideas, all of which I plan to cram into this fic, so don't worry I won't run out of ideas any time soon, but I can't write it all at once. I need to space it out so that I don't rush myself. I'm still not sure how long this fic is going to go on, but I think it'll be a long one.

So, as always, enjoy!

**Disclaimer: I don't own Sherlock.**

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Chapter 3: Dead Man Walking

Irene scurried up the steps of her complex, nearly catapulting through her door. She threw her purse on the counter and slammed the door shut behind her, careful to lock and bolt it. A woman of her reputation couldn't be careless. Luckily for her, she knew how to stay on her toes. She never stayed in one place for too long; makes for an easy target. She checked TV, radio, newspapers, anything and everything, making sure she was safe. Well, as safe as a fugitive on the run from several governments coulda be, that is. The newspapers were initially how she had found out about Sherlock's suicide.

Funny, when she had met him, that first time in her flat, she hadn't taken him for a man inclined towards suicide. Nor the second in Greece after he had saved her life. It was just so cliche...flinging yourself from a building. It was what ordinary people did. Sherlock's damn pride would never allow him to throw away his life, he was too proud._  
_

She'd had a lot of time since then to contemplate over what would motivate him to do such a thing as save her. He wasn't inhuman, of course. If you'd seen someone crossing the street, a bus about to crush them into the pavement, a perfectly humane person would call out. Perhaps flying across Europe and Asia to rescue a not so innocent woman from execution was second nature to him. Perhaps you don't really need a reason to save someone. Still, Sherlock wasn't one to go about saving people from busses.

Her latest theory was that his little escapade that just _happened_ to result in her life being spared was out of sheer boredom. That was the most plausible explanation. Not necessarily the one she wanted to believe, but she didn't make it a habit to delude herself. That only complicated the matter.

She supposed it didn't really matter. She was alive wasn't she? Being cooped up in a flat for nearly four months had really rubbed her raw, and her desperation to keep her mind sharp, focused on something, anything, had led her to dangerous thoughts.

Her flat was decent, considering it was temporary. Very temporary. She'd been here a month, which was usually quite a bit longer than she would have liked to stay. She was uneasy at first, naturally, but she'd quickly grown accustomed to her accommodations. Maybe it was just the familiar London air, but she felt strangely safe in her little flat, a haven away from all the madness in her newfound life.

It was simple, functional, and simplistic, yet homey and a bit snug. She almost liked the close quarters. It beat a big, empty mansion in the upscale part of London. As nice as those pesky mansions could be, they also gathered unwanted attention from certain government officials.

All of the rooms were conjoined, with only the bathroom and bedroom quartered off. The door led straight into the living room, perpendicular to the single bedroom. The living room took a sharp turn, into the kitchen. The kitchen was the smallest space, farthest from the door, with only a white marble counter and the basics. A dining room table lined the opposite wall. Next to the table was a sliding glass door which led to the balcony, where Irene spent most her time, early in the morning, cigarette in hand. It helped her think. She wasn't one to become addicted to substances, but it gave her the rare clarity of mind she had been so desperately needing for the past months.

Now that she was situated in her flat, she put the kettle on, deciding to have one last cup of tea before packing away a few of her things and heading off to the airport. Irene had paid the landlady rent for the next six months. She knew full well she had to leave, yet she couldn't bring herself to abandon her little patch of heaven. Besides, she needed a safe house, just in case things got messy. She had had close encounters with trouble over the past few months, but nothing too catastrophic. Still, she wouldn't be taking any chances.

She had originally told herself that the reason she was here in London was because she needed to take care of unfinished business - which was partially true. Yet, she knew the real reason was to visit Sherlock. Well, what was left of him. She had waited an entire month before visiting his grave, partly out of caution, but mostly out of hesitation. She eventually worked up the nerve though, even if it did cost her time. But that's all her life would be, running, and biding her time. On the bright side, she always wanted to travel when she was younger.

_I guess I've gotten my wish, in some twisted, messed up way._

She laughed in spite of herself. God, she was stupid. If she was to survive for the rest of her miserable damned life, she'd better keep it together. What the hell was happening to her? Where did this sudden sentiment for Sherlock Holmes come from? It's not as if he was any use to her dead. She sighed, her head sinking into her hands. Irene needed sleep.

_I'll go to sleep at a reasonable time when I have something worth waking up for_, she thought sullenly.

She folded her clothes neatly into her compact suitcase, taking only what needed to be taken, including a small sum of cash, folded her coat over her forearm and marched out the door, slipping the key into the lock and giving it a final turn.

* * *

**Venice, Italy - 2 months later-**

Irene glanced at the clock on her bedside table.

_2 AM. Shit. 2 months and still nothing worth waking up for._

She'd done all she could to keep her sanity, and she'd even built up a client base. Nothing like her business endeavors in London, but it was something to keep the crippling boredom away.

She'd grown tiresome of the constant traveling, and had decided to settle here in Venice for as long as she could. She'd splurged a bit, and bought a waterfront house overlooking the river that ran through the city.

So much for laying low. She's built up a decent client base now, and she _did _need some manner of professionalism in her line of work. That was what she prided herself on above all else in her business; discretion and professionalism. Besides, she might as well try to enjoy her time here in Venice. This happened to be a rare part of the world where she wasn't on the "most wanted" list.

It was in the late hours of the night now. The moonlight would be throwing fragments off light of the rippling river, running deep through the city, as water through a great trees roots, just outside her bedroom window.

At 11:40 sharp, she heard a hollow knock at her door. Like clockwork.

_That must be him now, s_he thought.

She peered through the door, to confirm her assumption. Her loyal client had scheduled their arrangement almost a month back. Irene Adler certainly kept busy. He was one of the more normal ones. He didn't necessarily like her dominatrix persona, he just liked seeing her. Her job was to give out scolding for those who enjoy that sort of thing, but overall, it was to give the client exactly what they liked. He was a boring, fairly predictable man, who was usually a bit jumpy waiting outside her door, as if he knew someone would discover his secret. Men like him though, they often had more than just one compromising secret, therefore reason to be a bit jumpy. Yes, she knew all about this one. Hadn't taken her too ling to figure him out. She loved her work for more than a couple of reasons. She loved power play, that much was obvious. But the mystery behind all these ordinary, depraved people...unravelling the masks people tend to hide themselves behind; _that's _what was truly riveting for her. These strangers' mysterious lives weren't any of her concern, but delving into other people's affairs was arguably what she did best. She glanced at herself in the mirror; hair flowing down her body in subtle, sensual waves. Her lips were stained a deep shade scarlet. Well, second best.

She looked out of the peephole just in time to pull her hand back from the first chain on her door.

_Where the hell was he? It's not like him to get cold feet and run._

Irene had scraped past too many near-death experiences to believe in mere coincidences. She grabbed the gun she kept locked in a drawer near the front entrance, and pressed it to her back. Slowly, meticulously, she unlocked the door.

At first, she wanted to laugh. Or scream. Or slam the door and throw herself in the canal, in an attempt to wake herself up. She stood, speechless, not a coherent thought forming in her brain, as if someone had just snapped the strings connecting body to mind. She didn't do anything. She just stood and stared for what seemed like ages. Her brain registered the impossibility of this being the man she so desperately wanted to believe it was. It had to be him. Surely her mind hadn't gone completely bonkers after all these months alone, had it? A lot of impossibilities had arisen in Irene's unusual life, but never before had she opened her flat door and come face to face with a dead man walking.


	4. Come As You Are

**Disclaimer: I do not own Sherlock. **

**Come As You Are - Nirvana**

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Chapter 4: Come As You Are

She stared in shock and horror at the ghostly, thin, feeble looking frame of her unexpected guest. He was a mere shadow. Her eyes swept over his too-long hair, flopping in his eyes when he looked up at her. She, in turn, reflected his sickly pale face. Their eyes locked, as she attempted to decipher his thoughts, as her own were jumbled together. What could she possibly say to him. Where to start? As if saving her from the cold grip of his eyes, his voice was the first to break the silence.

"Expecting someone?" He glanced down at her attire; a black corset laced with ribbons in back, deliciously accentuating her figure, stockings made of silk and lace, revealing only a slit of skin on her upper thighs, where they were connected to suspenders, paired with shiny peep toe black stilettos.

So consumed by her own questions, fighting for space in her brain, she put on the pretense of an expectant hostess. Slightly amused, she replied nonchalantly, "I'll put the kettle on.", as though she had been expecting him, and ghosts of dead detectives showing up in her house was a usual encounter.

She grabbed his arm, to pull him inside. He flinched under her tense grip, before slowly grabbing her wrist, removing the gun in her hand and setting it in the drawer.

Her hands were shaky as she handed him his cup of tea. Not sure of the words that would tumble out if she spoke, she waited for him to break the silence once again.

"I need your help."

"I'd assumed as much." Both mugs of tea sat on the coffee table standing in between the chair sherlock had slumped into, and the couch were irene had perched herself on the armrest. Unable to contain herself, she dove straight into the questions. "Where have you been, Sherlock?"

She didn't need to elaborate on her question. Irene Adler was a woman of few, but very effective words. In one simple question, she could ask twenty. Sherlock wrapped his head around the density and complexity her question entailed, and all the questions that came along with it; _Who was in on his faked suicide? Where had he been hiding for these three months? What had he gotten up to? Why hadn't he gone back to tell John? Why did he carry the heavy scent of cigarette smoke? Why was he on the run? _, to name a few.

He didn't reply.

"Then answer this; what do you want?" Irene asked inquisitively, putting extra emphasis on the word want. "Because I'm hungry and I want dinner."

"I've already told you; you're help."

"No, that's what you need to get what you want. Don't make me repeat myself."

_I never repeat myself_, she thought with a smirk. She was almost beginning to enjoy this. Oh, how she missed her little mind games. She missed the mystery, the intrigue of her long-forgotten past in London. But most of all, she missed Sherlock. A dead man had shown up at her door only minutes ago. How much more mysterious could you get?

Sherlock gave in, realizing he would get nowhere without first explaining what it was that he needed from her. "I've been hunting down Moriarty's network. I've managed to take out most of his lower men, but it's gotten complicated."

"Oh, so you're finally in over your head?" Irene asked with a playful smile. God, she loved it when people begged her for help. Clients begged her for a lot of things, but none of that excitement could compare to the rush she felt when the great Sherlock Holmes was asking her for help.

He looked annoyed. "Ahem- yes, in a manner of speaking," he mumbled. "As I said, it's gotten complicated and I've done all that's within my power to do."

"Indulge me." Irene leaned forward, her chin in her hand, watching him closely. She wore the same look of deep, unadulterated interest and focus as when Sherlock had been explaining the murder of the hiker and the back-fired car.

"I need connections. I figured you'd be able to help me with that."

"Connections?" Now she was really engaged, enthralled, really. Sherlock wasn't the most sociable person, and she highly doubted he was asking for her to arrange a quaint little tea party where he might encounter these desired "connections". No, these would be of the more criminal, murderous kind, no doubt.

He stared down at his cup. "It's…not really my area."

"No, I suppose not. Connections…with Moriarty's men, I presume? Well I suppose I can help you to a certain extent. Surely someone as intelligent as yourself realizes I haven't been keeping ties with them?"

"You have a substantial amount of information. I need it, Ms. Adler."

"Oh I see. And now we're really get down to business. And here I thought we were just old friends catching up." Irene got up off the armrest, taking her tea cup back to the kitchen. This, no matter how serious, was to be savored. Of course she was eager to choke answers out of him, but who didn't love a little foreplay?

"I assure you this is nothing but a business exchange. You may come to realize you need me just as much as I need you." Perhaps he had put too much emphasis on that last word.

As though he sensed her lips curling into a familiar, cheeky smile from inside the kitchen, he quickly added, "Your help."

She remained silent however, which only confirmed his suspicion that she had heard his little slip.

_This woman...she can speak more with silence than with words._

"I need you just as much as you need my..._help. _Explain." Sherlock wan't one to bluff. Not with her, and not when he desperately needed something.

"Moriarty is alive", he spat out.

Irene faltered, dropping her tea cup, which smashed as it hit the spotless, white tile floor. She didn't even bother to look down at the shattered china, or shriek as its contents scalded her, in a collision of glass, blood, and piping hot tea.

"Turns out I wasn't the only one with a faked suicide in mind."

"Jesus Christ." Irene felt fear welling up inside her. National governments, scandals, terrorist threats; these she could deal with. But Jim Moriarty was in a league of his own.

"I take it you didn't leave his inner circle of crime on the best of terms?"

"No, not exactly." Irene quickly sat down, before she fell to the floor, further unravelling before the strange man on her couch.

Sherlock suddenly seemed more keen to talking. "I need a key code. There are numerous levels to his little kingdom of crime, as I'm sure you know, and certain information is restricted from my access. Vital information. Only someone deep on the inside, someone with direct contact with Jim Moriarty can get me that code. "

Irene was silent. Summoning the strength to speak again, she spoke clearly and decisively louder than necessary. "I can't do that, Sherlock. Moriarty, he….he was after me. That execution in Karachi…I thought that was my saving grace, a merciful alternative to facing Jim. "

She saw the desperation in his face. He had flown over from God-knows-where to find her, and furthermore, ask for help. She knew this was no trivial matter. She felt she owed him an explanation, seeing the almost pleading look in his eyes.

"He…at first he asked for no compensation, nothing in return for the information given to me." She hesitated before adding, "The information about you."

_Ah , so this _was _about me_. Sherlock's expression, emanating clarity slightly unnerved, annoyed, and excited Irene.

"What? Hoping this would be about you?", Irene spat out, causing an amused smirk from Sherlock. "Anyway, he's wanted me dead ever since after the scandal. After I couldn't…repay him."

"I take it he didn't want anything as common as money?"

Irene raised an eyebrow at his comment. Perhaps he wasn't as clueless in these kinds of matters as she had thought. "Starting to grasp the situation, are you? He wants me dead, Sherlock. A man like Jim…he gets what he wants."

"_Jim_?", Sherlock repeated, clearly taken aback. It was Sherlock's turn to be surprised. That was twice, _twice, _now that she had referred to Moriarty as "Jim".

The room was swimming with silence and unanswered questions once again.

After the long pause, Sherlock resumed. "You were in direct contact with Moriarty, and quite frequently too, I take it. You'll be able to get me in with his upper ranks. Just find some way to persuade them into coughing up the key code or anything remotely useful in getting it."

"And how exactly do you intend I…'persuade' these upper ranks?"

"I'll leave you to your own devices. Do what you have to."

Irene gave him an expectant stare. "My usual methods of persuasion can be unorthodox, and get a little messy, Sherlock. Are you suggesting I shag the organization's prominent members?"

Sherlock spoke quietly. "I wouldn't ask you to do that."

"Then what?"

"I'm sure you'll figure something out. I'll do whatever I can to help your efforts, naturally. I need your full support."

He slipped a hand inside his blazer, and pulled out a thick roll of cash. I threw it down on the table in front of her.

"What's this for?"

"Living expenses."

It had not yet occurred to Irene that Sherlock was alive; alive and in her living room. He had given her the impression of some sort of supernatural being. Surely he didn't need food or drink, or a bed to sleep in. Just murder, a skull, a violin, and his best mate. Well. His only mate.

"Where are you staying?"

"Here." He scoffed, as if it should have been quite obvious to her that he would be occupying _her_ living space.

" And you think this is a good idea? Are you mad; hiding out together? Two people whose lives are in danger, living together? Not to mention I have clients, Sherlock."

But of course, Sherlock's thoughts were far from reason. "Don't you want to know how I found you?"

Her eyes beckoned him to continue.

"I ran into a man- a very distinctive man, one of Moriarty's men, outside your apartment in Wales 723a Providence Avenue. Don't be alarmed, I took care of him. After a quick investigation I came to the conclusion it was yours. I stayed for a week, allowing time for more of Moriarty's men to show up. You seem to be experienced in covering your tracks. It took me almost the whole of three weeks."

"Did anymore show up?"

"Surprisingly, no."

"How long ago?"

"One month."

"They're only a month behind on my trail." Irene mumbled, speaking to no one in particular. "Brilliant. And if you've led those dolts to my front door?"

"Well then they've got a lot of swimming to do. Besides, we'll hear them coming. They're not exactly graceful" He gave her a cheeky smirk.

"You said I may need you as much as you need me."

"Yes. In return, I'll offer you my protection. They won't be able to get to you while I'm here." He took a small sip of his cold tea. "Mind you, I don't sleep."

"Surely you have faith in my abilities to fend for myself?"

"Irene…" He spoke carefully, as if testing the waters by using her given name. "We share a common need. I need to take Moriarty down, and you need to avoid getting your head cut off, or worse, by Moriarty's hand. It's foolproof."

A shared dependency between her and Sherlock Holmes. Interesting. "Alright, I suppose we've come to an agreement, then. I'll help you get this key code, and you'll make sure no more men carrying guns are lined up outside my house."

Sherlock slumped back into the couch in relief, clearly exhausted. He was usually quite confident of his skills in manipulation of weak-willed, simple-minded civilians, but with Irene Adler, one never knew just what to expect. He had been right to tread carefully on thin ice.

"Oh yes, there is one more thing to negotiate." Irene got up, beckoning for Sherlock to follow after her. She threw open her bedroom door, and turned around to look at Sherlock, who stood cautiously in the doorway. "There's only one bed. I hope you don't mind.", Irene flirted, implying that she didn't mind in the least bit.

"I don't sleep.", he replied cooly.

"Beds are for more than sleeping". She winked, and slipped past him into the living room, shutting the door behind her.

So, he was back. As long as he was here, she might as well have some fun with him. But first she had to clean up the blood, china, and tea staining her floor. She bent down, scooping up the remnants of her favorite cup, and even she couldn't deny the tears forming in her eyes, and the darkness and fear creeping into her heart.


	5. The Adventure Begins

**A/N:** Hello my lovely readers. I want to first and foremost apologize for abandoning my story the way I have. I do realize it's been two months since I last updated. I don't mean to go on about myself, but I do feel I should be upfront with the fact that I've been severely depressed for the past threemonths, and I just haven't been able to get myself to do anything. Sorry if the next chapters are shit. I'm trying, really. Anyways, I just thought I should let you know that I won't be abandoning the story, but I might cut it a little shorter than I thought I would. Well, that being said, enjoy! And I PROMISE you I will TRY to update more often.

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Irene suffered a mostly sleepless night, but after a cigarette, two shots, and finally a trip to the local bar (who was she kidding; she needed a drink), she fell asleep soundlessly. Mostly soundlessly. As expected Sherlock spent half the night up, alternating between investigating on Irene's laptop, and playing his violin. The ominous sound of the tune he was composing drifted through Irene's bedroom door and into her sleep. She felt every pluck, every lift of the bow, in her dreams.

The next morning

Irene awoke rather violently the next morning, or what was left of it. She found herself on hands and knees in front of the toilet, trying to purge the evidence of last nights misfortunes. She glanced at the clock on her nightstand, when she was certain her stomach had straightened out again. It was 10:00 AM. Quite late for a Monday morning. She wasn't a morning person, as she worked by night, but never-the-less this was uncommon for her. That and the fact that she apparently hadn't been able to handle her liquor well last night. Also unlike her. She told herself it was only the aftermath of having received the news of Moriarty's return, and not the trauma of Sherlock turning up, though she knew better. Either way, she knew she had no choice but to keep it together. Besides, she had a job to do now; tracking down Moriarty's web.

She slipped on a robe over her nightie, which she usually never bothered to wear. She walked into the living room only to be greeted by clear signs of Sherlock's presence, although he himself was missing. Experiments, reports, test tubes filled with God knows what were left scattered throughout her apartment. She walked over to the violin laying on the armrest of a chair, and lightly traced her fingers along the curves, feeling the smooth varnish. The sound of Sherlock's footsteps awakened her from her daydream about Moriarty, and her uncertain and perilous circumstances.

Sherlock gave her a meaningful glance from afar.

Irene tried not to look startled. "Good morning, Mr. Holmes. Coffee or tea?" she asked, walking over to the kitchen.

"Tea, thank you." Upon entering the kitchen, Irene took note of the seemingly infinite number of dishes trashing the place. She stirred her teaspoon quickly, a bit agitated.

"Sherlock." She glared at him, waiting for him to respond. John had warned her about this. "Sherlock."

His head snapped towards her. "What?"

"Maybe we should talk about the fact that your experiments are all over my house."

"It's research."

"Research," she stated skeptically. "Right. So are you researching the effects of alcohol on honey badgers?" She asked, a bit amused, while glancing over one of his many loose papers.

"That's private."

"And it's also in my living room. If this is going to work, you're going to need to clean this stuff up."

"_This_?"

"Our arrangement, dear. I have clients; I need my living room."

"Why would you need the living room, in your line of work? You have a perfectly good bedroom."

"My bedroom doesn't have a sofa, railing, and a view, which some of my clients seem to require"

Sherlock shifted a bit uncomfortably, as he was currently seated on the sofa.

"Well, yes, of course I can clean up then, I guess, I'll just.." Sherlock began fumbling for words.

"Look at you, all flustered", flirted Irene.

"You made it home from the bar all in one piece I assume?" Sherlock snapped back at her.

_Shit. He knew. Did this man ever sleep? How did he stay awake without taping his eyelids to his forehead? _Irene knew how to play this off as nothing. It was just a matter of convincing. Even she faltered under Sherlock's questioning gaze. However, her lips only curved into a sweet smile. "No need to be concerned; I'm perfectly fine."

"I beg to differ. One doesn't drink near as much when they are 'perfectly fine'."

"And next you'll tell me I'm an alcoholic?" Irene asked, keeping her cool.

"No. I'll tell you that you're emotionally unstable. Tears and alcohol don't mix. Perhaps I shouldn't have come; you seem a bit….well. I doubt you'll be much help in this state."

This comment, however, set Irene off.

"Ah yes, the case. How is it going? I'm sure the genius Sherlock Holmes has at least one lead?" Irene's annoyed, taunting smirk burned into Sherlock. They kept their eyes locked on each other in an intense stare, eyes burning. "No? Oh, I expected more from you. Luckily I got in a bit of research before I got blackout drunk, and had one of my _many _emotionally unstable episodes."

Sherlock only cast her an annoyed sideways glance.

"I'm sure you've found a profound piece of information I somehow missed during months of digging, figuratively and literally, I might add, all while downing gallons of alcohol."

"Actually, yes."

Sherlock only shook his head and directed his attention, once more, to his computer screen.

Irene stood by, arms crossed, patiently waiting for his undivided attention. After several minutes, she spoke up. "Mr. Holmes, I have something important to discuss with you."

"Your profound information can wait." But Irene Adler was not a woman willing to wait. She had a way of commanding attention, and keeping it fixed on herself. She slowly walked up to the desk Sherlock's many papers were occupying, shut his laptop, and climbed on top of the desk, crossing her legs, directly across from Sherlock, who sat back in his chair, just slightly.

"Now that I have your attention…" She began. "Grab your coat. We're going to a party tonight, and I need something satisfactory to wear."

"And this is your idea of laying low is it? No wonder those men found your apartment so easily. Besides, don't you have enough dresses? Surely you can find one that's suitable."

"Do I? And how would you happen to know the contents of my wardrobe, Mr. Holmes?"

"I saw your closet, back at your apartment, during my inspection." Sherlock was completely unmoved, and not at all uncomfortable, and that could just not do.

"Ah. And was my top right drawer involved in your inspection?"

"Yes. As was every drawer in the room."

"Oh, well then surely you would be able to tell me whether I left my riding crop back in London. It would have been hidden under the black lacy panties, I believe. I can't seem to find in anywhere, and I must admit, I've become quite…attached to this one in particular."

Sherlock looked a bit unsettled at this, Irene's calamity taunting him to keep his own. He only gave her an amused glance, leaning back further in his chair.

Irene slid off the desk in a smooth motion, and before Sherlock realized what had happened, she was kneeling and slightly leaning over him. Her hand found his cheek, stroking his razor-sharp cheekbones.

"You're blushing."

At this, his blush deepened into a noticeable red. She rose, Sherlock' s eyes grasping onto any and all of her. Irene had him wrapped around her finger, he just didn't know it yet.

Irene casually walked towards the door, grabbing her purse and cell phone, before stepping out into the hall. She peered back through the door, to see Sherlock sitting, deep in thought, his hands folded under his chin as though he were praying. "You coming?"

He quickly stood and followed her out the door.


End file.
